A Study in Childcare
by FyreFlyte
Summary: John and Mary have a baby. Sherlock tries to figure out how he fits in.
1. Chapter 1

_Well, the Sherlock muse hit me on the head, and this is the result._

_This story has three chapters (already written.) Updates will be on Saturdays._

* * *

Mary goes into labor on a February mid-afternoon. Sherlock's out of contact in every way possible, busy tracking a serial rapist who's been eluding Lestrade for months. He gets back to Baker Street at nearly midnight, exhausted and wired and coated in blood (that isn't his), to find that he has sixteen panicked voicemails from John. All of which, of course, fail to actually mention that Mary is in labor, as John is too busy cursing Sherlock out to mention that particular detail.

Sherlock deduces the situation and takes a cab to St. Bart's, where he inadvertently sneaks up on John in the waiting room.

"Why aren't you with Mary?" he demands. John jumps and releases an impressive array of swearwords.

"Bloody _hell_, Sherlock, where have you been?"

"I told you, I had a case today. Where's Mary? Is she all right?" Sherlock says impatiently.

"Yes, I — I think she's fine, she just didn't want me in the room. I don't know why, I think she's worried the baby'll be deformed — " it's not, Sherlock's studied the obstetrician's reports — "and that'll turn me off or something." John looks a little wretched saying it. Sherlock knows the two of them have had their ups and downs in the recent months, Mary's insecurities clashing with John's lingering hurt over her lies. They're working on it, but these things take time.

"I brought food," Sherlock says, and hands John a paper bag of fish and crisps.

"Oh." John takes the bag and immediately shoves a crisp into his mouth. "I guess I forgot dinner. When did you—is that _blood_?"

Sherlock looks down and remembers his splattered shirt.

"Don't worry, it's a rapist's," he says dismissively, and that's the moment when the nurse comes out and says Mary's waiting for them.

John bolts for the door like he's back in Afghanistan getting pursued by terrorists. Sherlock follows at a more cautious pace, unease curling suddenly in his gut. This will change things, he knows. It's bigger than getting married. John will have more responsibilities now. He won't want to join Sherlock on dangerous cases, and he won't want to discuss murders in the living room, and Sherlock will have to baby-proof his flat, and —

"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at her. Isn't she beautiful?" John sounds tongue-tied. Mary beams up at him from the hospital bed, clearly exhausted, and John steps around to show Sherlock the pink bundle in his arms.

The baby's asleep, quiet breaths ghosting in and out of its tiny nose, and Sherlock suddenly realizes he's going to have to make another vow.

"What's her name?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Abigail," John says with a grin, watching Sherlock carefully. "Abigail Wilhelmina Watson."

* * *

Sherlock doesn't hear from John or Mary for a couple of weeks. He tries not to think about it. Mycroft pays him a visit and the two of them puzzle over the Moriarty-on-every-telly-in-Britain fiasco, which no one has been able to solve yet. He takes a case from Lestrade (which he solves in three hours) and sends Wiggins grocery shopping. He runs thirty-two experiments simultaneously and by the third week, Sherlock's about ready to cry from boredom. He's got his mobile out to call John when the front door opens and John comes tramping up the stairs.

Sherlock stares. His life can be weirdly ironic sometimes.

"Help," John implores, without even bothering to say hello. "I haven't slept in—I don't even know how long. Could you come over for a bit and watch Abigail, just for a few hours? Mary and I need a nap."

A _babysitter_? Is that what Sherlock is now?

He's about to tell John no, absolutely not, when John adds, "Please?"

And that's pretty much the end of the story.

John tries to tell him everything he needs to know on the drive back to the Watson house. Sherlock tunes him out, because he's not an idiot, he's done his research. He knows everything anyone's ever written about childcare. It can't be that hard to put into practice.

When John wakes up after a five hour nap, he initially panics, because he set his alarm for two hours, and apparently he overslept. Mary's still snoring beside him, so he lets her sleep and fumbles his way into the sitting room.

"…and your mother put a bullet through my chest once, but don't worry, I don't have any hard feelings about that."

"_Sherlock!_" John splutters. Sherlock looks up from where he's standing, Abigail cradled peacefully in his arms.

"Oh hello, John," he says. "I thought you'd be up about now. Have a nice nap? Dinner's on the table."

John blinks in shock. Lasagna and green beans are proudly displayed on the kitchen table, which is set for three.

"Molly stopped by and stayed for a bit," Sherlock continues, oblivious to John's disbelief. "She's quite a good cook, did you know that?" He looks down at the baby and makes, of all things, a _kissy face. _"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few years for lasagna, Abigail."

John finds the nearest couch and sits down, because never in a million years would he have guessed that Sherlock could be a decent babysitter.

"Oh, and John? Don't open the microwave. I'm running an experiment."

* * *

Molly becomes a lifesaver, of sorts. After five or so instances of babysitting over the course of several months, Sherlock is forced to admit that despite all he knows, childcare is much different in practice than in theory. John doesn't catch on for a while, but every time he calls Sherlock up to watch Abigail, Sherlock immediately turns around and calls Molly for help. It's nice, the bonding time he gets with both the baby and with Molly. Molly doesn't scream in horror when Sherlock does something Not Good, like leaving the skull in Abigail's cradle. She just quietly and anxiously explains that no, babies shouldn't chew on skulls, put that thing far away, and moves on.

And she can cook, which is an unexpected bonus.

Unfortunately, though, Molly is not always available when Sherlock's babysitting skills are required.

Sherlock gets home to his flat at 9:00am in the morning, frustrated and in what John calls one of his "moods." He's been tracking a serial killer for the past week, but the suspect he'd been most interested in turned out merely to be a fantastically stupid shopkeeper in the wrong places at all the wrong times. While Sherlock had been tracking the shopkeeper, the serial killer had murdered another victim, and Sherlock had been up all night trying to figure out where he went wrong.

Lestrade had sent him home around 2:00am, but Sherlock had paced unhappily around London for another seven hours before returning to his flat.

Which is when, of course, his phone rings.

"Are you on a case?" John asks. He's been a bit out of contact ever since the baby came along; the two of them haven't had time to talk in months.

"Yes," Sherlock says sharply. "The same one as last week."

"Really?" John sounds surprised, which should be a compliment, but is just kind of insulting. "Can you take a break for an afternoon? Harry called me the other day and wanted to meet up for lunch. Normally I'd say no, but — well, we haven't talked since before the wedding, and I thought lunch couldn't hurt. Mary wants to come with me."

Sherlock considers. In previous years he would've immediately said no, but things have changed since then. And he actually does have to start over with his case. He supposes he can consider all his options while he watches Abigail; Molly will do most of the work, anyways.

"I'll watch her," Sherlock says, before John can even ask, and hangs up. He immediately calls Molly.

Who, it transpires, is out of town for the weekend.

Sherlock stares at his phone in a panic. He can still back out. John's not here yet, he could just call and say something came up, he has to —

The doorbell rings.

"Thanks for doing this, Sherlock, I know it's last minute," John says when Sherlock opens the door. Mary waves at him from the front seat of the car parked on the street. "You know, I've realized — we haven't had a case together in a while. Let me know when you get your next one, will you?"

"I — " Sherlock falters in the face of John's expectant smile. He can't back out now, can he? That would be Not Good, especially since John seems so happy. And he _wants_ to go on a case with John again. "Yes. I will." He takes Abigail from John. "Now go on, get out. We'll be fine."

Which is a lie, it's such a lie, but Sherlock's always been good at lying.

It goes well for the first hour or so. 221B has been baby-proofed for a while now, out of Sherlock's sheer paranoia, with a new gate that blocks off the kitchen. John's pointed out multiple times that the gate isn't necessary until Abigail starts walking, but Sherlock's good at ignoring him. Mrs. Hudson has been surprisingly helpful, keeping most of the flat clean and disease-free. Sherlock puts Abigail in the corner and lets her sleep while he tacks photos of murder victims to the wall, trying impatiently to see what he missed the first time around. He's so absorbed that he doesn't even realize Abigail's crying until Mrs. Hudson sticks her head in to ask what the screaming is about.

"Oh," Sherlock says guiltily, wincing at the noise. "Ah, not to worry, Abigail's just—hungry. I haven't fed her yet. Go on, Mrs. Hudson."

"Do you need any help, dear?"

"No," Sherlock says, while inwardly screaming _yes._ He can't let John find out that he's incompetent, or John will never let him babysit again, and then he'll never _see_ John again. "We're fine."

Feeding Abigail actually does turn out to be the right course of action, or at least the course of action that gets her to stop screaming. Sherlock carries her to the window as he holds the bottle to her lips, idly looking down at the street while she gurgles her meal.

There's not much happening outside; it's a quiet, hateful kind of afternoon. Except for a man standing casually across from his window, there's no activity and no one around. Sherlock gives the man a glance. New hat pulled low over his eyes, new clothes, new shoes, hasn't showered recently, carrying a wallet, a mobile, and a —

He does a double take, eyes darting upwards, trying to see the man's face beneath the hat.

Which is when the man pulls out his gun, aims at Sherlock's head, and fires.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

John's in a tiny café, eating lunch with his sister and Mary, when his mobile rings. His afternoon has been surprisingly pleasant so far. Harry's just left rehab again, so she's currently alcohol-free, and their conversation has been civil. John even thinks she approves of Mary. He ignores his mobile the first time, but when it rings for the third time in a row, he has no choice but to acknowledge it.

"Sorry," he apologizes to Harry as he reaches for his phone. "Let me just see who…" he breaks off with a frown, and hits answer. "Hello? Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh _John_," Mrs. Hudson sounds panicked. "I've got your Abigail, but I've lost Sherlock. I don't know where he's gone!"

"Excuse me?" John says. He trusted Sherlock with Abigail, dammit, and if he's abandoned her for some stupid case, there will be hell to pay. "He's _gone_?"

"Yes, he handed me Abigail and ran out of here not five minutes ago, I've called the police and locked the door in case it isn't safe, but —"

"Hang on." That sounds weird. "Why've you got the door locked?"

"In case it isn't safe!" Mrs. Hudson says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I heard gunfire, so I assumed — "

"_What?_" John's out of the chair and running for the door before the word's even left his mouth, Mary in close pursuit. "You heard—Jesus, okay, I'm coming, I'm about twenty-five minutes away, can you hang on that long?"

"Yes, I—the police are coming, we should be fine. But John, I don't know where Sherlock's got to."

John swallows against the cold fear that lodges in his stomach, and reminds himself that Sherlock has been in far worse situations.

"We'll worry about that in a minute. Just stay safe, all right?"

"Oh, there's Scotland Yard." John can hear sirens in the background. "I'll call you back in a bit, John!"

"Right, yes—bye." He hangs up before ducking into the passenger seat, and he slams the car door closed. "We've got a situation," he tells Mary, who's already started the engine. "You'd better hurry."

* * *

John and Mary arrive to find Baker Street lined with police cars. From the street, John can see bullet holes in one of 221B's upper windows, and he again swallows against the fear curling in his gut. He knows that Sherlock can't have been seriously hurt by the gunfire, because he had the sense to get Abigail to Mrs. Hudson. But then he…

Went after the shooter. By himself.

"I'm going to kill him," John mutters, threading around a police car to get to 221B's door. He sees Sally Donovan out of the corner of his eye and resolutely ignores her.

Inside, John and Mary find Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson standing in the hallway, Abigail cradled to Mrs. Hudson's chest.

"Oh my god," Mary says, making a beeline for their child. Mrs. Hudson hands Abigail over. John can't help but put an arm around Mary's shoulders and check on Abigail with his own eyes. "What happened?"

"Well," says Lestrade, "It looks like someone shot at Sherlock's window from the street. I dunno who yet, there's no gun and practically no evidence. And we haven't been able to find Sherlock yet either."

"He came into my kitchen and handed me Abigail without a word of explanation," Mrs. Hudson tells them. "Just dropped the baby into my arms and ran."

John drags a hand over his face. This is just so typical…

"Was he hurt?" he asks Mrs. Hudson.

"I don't know," she admits. "He didn't seem injured, but when would Sherlock ever let an injury keep him off a case?"

"A case?" Mary says, turning to Lestrade. "Was he on a case? Is this related?"

"He was on a case," Lestrade admits. "We've been trying to find that serial killer—the one who leaves his victims in their bedrooms, no matter where he's killed them? You must've heard about it; he's been in the news quite a lot. Sherlock hit a dead end yesterday and seemed pretty cut up about it."

"Do you think that might have something to do with this shooting?" John asks with a frown. "Maybe, I dunno, someone tipped the killer off, and he chose Sherlock as his next target?"

"It's possible, I suppose," Lestrade says. "But again, we've got no evidence to go on."

"Well we can't just sit here," John says impatiently. "Half of London must've seen Sherlock running around by now. We've got to find him."

At that moment, the door to 221B swings open. The four of them turn to see a tall figure enter the hallway.

"Hello," Mycroft says, swinging his umbrella once. "I believe you're looking for my brother?"

* * *

In the end, it's a bit anticlimactic. Mycroft's crazy secret spy network of omnipotence pinpoints Sherlock's location (and apparently Mycroft has a tracking device implanted somewhere in his brother. John is _not_ going to be the one who breaks that news), and Lestrade, John, Mary, Mycroft, and an entourage of police officers show up just in time.

Sherlock's got the shooter cornered in a dead-end alley. He's blocking the exit with his body, using a _trash can_ for protection.

"Stand down!" Sherlock shouts at the shooter as Lestrade and the police close in. "You can't win this one."

John is convinced that Sherlock gets high off stating the obvious.

Hours later, the shooter's in custody and they have the whole story, more or less. It turns out that yes, the shooter was the serial killer, and yes, he got scared when he realized the police had gone to Sherlock for help. So of course he chose Sherlock as his next target.

They all crash in Lestrade's office and watch blearily as Sherlock paces around the desk.

"The shopkeeper _was_ involved after all," Sherlock mutters to himself, beginning his seventy-eighth-ish circuit around the room. "Stupid, _stupid, _of _course _he was involved, the killer obviously needed an accomplice somewhere to keep — "

He falters suddenly, and alarm bells go off in John's head.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Ah." Sherlock touches his shoulder and grimaces. "I may have forgotten to mention…these will likely require stitches."

Likely require — ?

Oh. Of course.

John feels another couple of hairs go grey, because _of course_ the idiot's walking around injured.

"Injured," as it turns out, is putting it lightly. Sherlock has three separate bullet grazes across his back and slivers of glass embedded in his shoulder. John takes him to St. Bart's, where he discovers that Sherlock is also dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and hasn't eaten in god knows how long.

John sits by him in the emergency room, disappointed but not surprised.

"When did you last eat?" he asks Sherlock. As expected, he doesn't get a response. John knows from past experience that a food-deprived Sherlock tends to retreat into his mind palace. That's good for working on a case, John supposes, but it tends to blind Sherlock to his body's needs. Once Sherlock skips a meal, it's more or less a downward spiral until something drastic happens to halt it.

Bullet grazes and a solved case certainly qualify as "drastic" enough.

John waits until Sherlock gets patched up, and then he insists on paying for the cab ride back to 221B. He picks up Chinese from the restaurant around the corner and makes sure Sherlock eats at least half of the food. Sherlock says very little the entire evening, although he does make a face at the ruined window in his flat.

"Good night, John," Sherlock finally says, rather pointedly, at around ten-thirty pm. John sighs and takes the hint.

He'll come back tomorrow, he thinks, as he shuts the door on 221B. It's high time he got back to being Sherlock's friend.

* * *

Sherlock watches the cab pull away from the flat, then allows the curtain to fall over the ruined window. He's tired, and his back and shoulder ache, but he's too nervous to sleep. Today was Not Good for two reasons. One: he agreed to babysit Abigail when he knew he was distracted by a case. And two: he failed to realize that the serial killer was tracking _him._ If he hadn't turned away from the window when he had, Abigail might have —

He stops that train of thought, and focuses instead on another. He isn't safe. He's known this for ages, since before John, but it's become more and more apparent ever since he befriended John. His friends, as few as they are, will always be in danger because of him.

This is why Mycroft told him not to get involved, Sherlock thinks. He has enemies. And people who have enemies cannot also have friends.

* * *

_Thanks for the feedback so far, everyone. It really helps!_


	3. Chapter 3

Molly's at work, inspecting a severed arm, when she hears a familiar voice over her shoulder.

"Molly?"

She looks up, surprised, and smiles at John. He's standing about two feet away with a slightly hesitant look on his face, as though he's reluctant to know exactly what she's doing with severed body parts.

"Hello, John," Molly says, brushing a stray hair out of her face before remembering she didn't take her gloves off first. Gross. "It's been a while. How're Abigail and Mary?"

"Ah, yeah, it has been—a long time," John fumbles. "And Abigail's doing really well. Mary too, they're both—great."

Molly sets the arm aside and gives John her full attention.

"Is something wrong? Is it Sherlock?"

John looks a little relieved.

"I have a few questions for you about him, actually. Can I buy you lunch?"

Twenty minutes later, they're sitting in the St. Bart's canteen, Molly idly picking apart some mushy pasta as John sips on a depressing cup of tea.

"All right," Molly says, pointing her fork at John. "You bought me lunch. Now talk."

"Have you spoken to Sherlock recently?" John asks, fiddling with his napkin.

"I did about a week and a half ago. He wanted me to help him babysit again, but I was out of town. I haven't heard from him since. Why?"

"Wait, hang on," John looks perplexed. "You've helped him babysit? When?"

"About five or six times now, I think," Molly says, and then stops. John's face is a little weird. "Didn't you know?" she asks in surprise. "I've been to your house at least three of those times."

"No." John runs a hand over his mouth, confirming Molly's suspicions. "So you've been — you've been helping him babysit." He laughs. "I guess that makes sense. He never was very good with kids."

"I think he's quite good with Abigail," Molly says, a little more sharply than she intended. "He holds her and talks to her, and he makes sure she isn't alone. He just doesn't know what to do when she starts crying, that's all. And he doesn't always remember to feed her."

"Right." John lets out a long breath. "Right, so — he's asked you for help."

"I think it makes him feel better, to be honest," Molly confesses. "I don't think he trusts himself with her."

"Well that's rubbish," John says. "I know he'd never, you know, hurt her. Deliberately, anyway."

"But what about accidentally?" Molly points out. John stares at her for a moment.

"Oh," he says, as though he's just realized something.

"Is Sherlock okay?" Molly asks, because she's a little alarmed by John's thoughtful expression.

"I don't know," John says truthfully. "He's holed himself up in his flat all week. He refuses to speak with anyone, even Mrs. Hudson. I've forced my way inside once or twice and offered to go on a case with him, but he just ignores me."

"That is a little weird," Molly agrees with a frown.

"No, it's stubborn, is what it is," John says, and stands up abruptly. "Thanks, Molly. You've been a great help."

Molly huffs into her pasta as John practically sprints out of the canteen.

"You're welcome," she tells the empty seat.

* * *

"He's gone _where_?"

"Abroad, apparently," Mrs. Hudson explains, and John stares at her incomprehensibly. "He didn't say where, exactly. But it sounded like he'll be gone for at least a week."

"But why?" John says desperately. Mrs. Hudson shrugs.

"It could be for a case. This isn't the first time he's gone away, you know. He's been out quite often ever since your Abigail came along."

John stares at her, the wheels turning in his head. Sherlock doesn't leave the flat to go sightseeing—he always leaves to conduct research or to work on a case. Maybe he _is_ on a case right now. It'd be about time.

"Right," John says, "I'm just going to check in with Greg. I'll see you in a bit."

"Bye, John," Mrs. Hudson sighs.

Outside 221B, John pulls out his mobile and calls Lestrade. But it turns out that Sherlock isn't on a case at all.

"I haven't seen him since the shooting," Lestrade admits, and he sounds a tad worried now. "Has he been holding up alright?"

"I don't know," John says, which is the truth. He's lost touch with Sherlock recently, and he never wants to do so again.

He hangs up and thinks for a moment. Who would know, without a doubt, Sherlock's whereabouts? A second later the answer comes, and John hails a cab.

* * *

Mycroft is deeply engrossed with the Korean newspaper when a most unwelcome voice breaks the silence.

"I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes. Where is he?"

Sighing in exasperation, Mycroft strides to the door and pokes his head out. John has been, predictably, converged upon by stern-faced guards. Mycroft gives them a long-suffering look and merely motions for them to deposit John in his office.

"How many times, John?" Mycroft scolds once the door has been locked, "We have a policy of absolute silence."

"Yeah, and I really couldn't care less," John counters rudely. "Where's he gone?"

"If you mean Sherlock, then he's away," Mycroft says, sinking back into his chair. He picks the newspaper up again, already bored.

"Yes, I know he's away," John says irritably. "I want to know where he's gone."

"I'm afraid I can't reveal that, as it would endanger several top-secret MI-6 operations," Mycroft states calmly. "However, I can assure you that Sherlock will be back within two weeks, and no longer."

"I thought Sherlock stopped doing your dirty work," John says angrily. "Didn't he have enough of that in the two years he was supposed to be dead?"

"If you're referring to the scars on his back, that was hardly my fault," Mycroft says indignantly.

The look on John's face says that he was not, in fact, aware of the scars. Damn.

"What?" John demands.

"Never you mind," Mycroft says sharply. "A position came up, I offered it to Sherlock, he accepted, and he'll be back in two weeks. That's the end of it. Now scuttle."

John stands up quickly, expression twisted into a rather amusing look of disgust.

"Sherlock was right," he says petulantly, "You are a rubbish big brother."

Mycroft merely turns the page.

* * *

It's raining heavily when Sherlock finally makes it back to the heart of London. He pulls up his coat collar before exiting the cab, but that does nothing to protect his head from the downpour. Squinting, he strides to the door of 221B and ducks inside, shaking water off his coat and onto the floor. Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased, but it hardly matters. She always does the mopping on Sundays.

He takes the steps two at a time, eager to sleep in his own bed. He walks straight through the sitting room…and then stops.

John is asleep on his couch.

Confused, Sherlock moves closer. John merely snores in his direction. His clothes are wrinkled and he doesn't smell particularly clean, so Sherlock deduces that John has been waiting in his flat all day. Mycroft must have told him when Sherlock planned to return.

But what on earth is he doing here?

Too tired to give it much thought, and giving it up as a lost cause anyways, Sherlock leaves John on the couch and heads to his own bed.

* * *

"Coffee?" a loud voice asks in John's ear.

John bolts upright in shock and unintentionally head-buts Sherlock, who promptly drops the cup of coffee in John's lap. John yelps and scrambles off the couch, disoriented and most definitely burned by the scalding liquid.

"For God's sake, John!" Sherlock says, one hand clutched to his forehead.

"What the _hell_, Sherlock?" John splutters, frantically hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to lessen the pain in his legs. "Can't you wake people up normally? Jesus—ow!" He is most definitely burned. "I'm taking these off. Find me a spare pair of pants."

And he retreats into Sherlock's bathroom.

Sherlock blinks after him for a moment. Then he retrieves the old pair of pants that John left in 221B years ago. Sherlock's been meaning to give them back ever since the wedding, but somehow it had always slipped his mind.

John comes out of the bathroom with a slight wince.

"Do you want ice?" Sherlock asks uncertainly.

"No, I'm not too badly burned," John says. "But you have ruined my pants."

"Oh." Sherlock looks at him. "Sorry. What were you doing on my couch?"

"Why did you go abroad?" John counters.

"Well…Mycroft had a job that needed doing, so—"

"Don't give me that, Sherlock," John interrupts unhappily. "You haven't wanted to take a case from Mycroft ever since—ever since you came back from the dead."

Sherlock doesn't answer. He can't deny that.

"You were running away," John accuses.

Sherlock can't deny that either.

"_Why_?" John asks.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He's had a lot of time to think about this, and it's now or never.

"Look, John," he says slowly. "You must have noticed by now that I'm not...a safe person to be around. I realize that I'm your best friend, but the fact is that you have a family now. You must understand that you have a responsibility towards your daughter."

"Obviously," John says with a frown, and it doesn't seem like he's following the conversation. "She's my daughter, of course I'm responsible for her. That still doesn't explain why you ran away."

"I wasn't _running_," Sherlock denies. "I was simply away. It's safer for Abigail while I'm gone."

John stares at him for a very, very long moment.

"No…" he says slowly. "Nope, that's not…it at all, actually. Mary and I don't have another babysitter, you know. It was quite horrible. We haven't had a moment to ourselves in weeks."

Sherlock looks at John blankly.

"Did you really think that I'd make you stop seeing her because of the shooting incident?" John asks incredulously. "God, you're daft. Have you forgotten who her parents are? Any day now someone from Mary's past could show up at the house and try to murder her. Of course we're not safe. No one is, these days."

He looks at Sherlock closely.

"And I'd rather keep my best friend around, if that's alright with you."

"It's not that simple—"

"It really is that simple, Sherlock," John interrupts. "Really. It is."

Sherlock considers this for a long moment. Then, carefully, he files the information away in his mind palace. It must take a while, because when he comes back to himself, John looks particularly concerned.

"Well, alright then," Sherlock says suddenly, and moves back into the kitchen. "Lestrade texted. Someone just stole a painting from the National Gallery. Want to come along?"

He doesn't turn around, but he hears the grin in John's voice anyway.

"Oh God, yes."

* * *

_**For all those who've stuck with this story, thanks so much. Your kind words mean a lot to me! **_


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